Geldings

My father was a stallion and a criminal... but I repeat myself.

My friend Rumble and I made a pact years ago to never become geldings. It's not because we wanted to grow into stallions, of course. We just wanted to stay colts forever. We still had visions of the future where we were successful adults—Rumble wanted to be a Wonderbolt like his brother, and I wanted to be a journalist—but we didn't think too deeply into the fact that achieving our dreams would require growing up at some point.

In retrospect, I probably meant the vow more than Rumble did. Nopony likes the idea of losing part of your body, even when it's clearly for the best, but I'm pretty sure it bothered me more than most colts. It wasn't the medical aspect of it, though. That scares a lot of kids even though it doesn't hurt much. It was the idea of how it changes who you are as a pony. To this day, I vividly remember overhearing Snips's mother shortly after his gelding. "It's amazing," she said. "He's so well-mannered now."

Well-mannered. When I heard that phrase, it felt like somepony kicking me right between the legs. I liked Snips the way he was! He had a fun personality before the operation, and afterwards... it was almost like the doctor had removed a part of his brain. I know when ponies talk about stallions thinking with their balls they don't mean literally, but it seemed like fixing him had altered something fundamental about who he was as a colt. After he became a gelding, he sat still in class, he lost interest in hoofball (though to be fair, he'd always been awful at it), and he started talking to fillies. He was growing up at a lightning clip. It terrified me. (Knowing what I know now, my concerns about Snips were doubly ironic—but these were my thoughts at the time.)

What does it feel like to be well-mannered, I wondered? Is it like being a girl? Since every colt becomes a gelding, it's impossible to say how much of the change is from the geld and how much is just normal maturation. I knew being gelded didn't turn you into a filly, but it seemed to make you act more like one. Colts would usually become more obedient and more eager to please. Unlike Snips, I was already obedient, so what would it do to me? Would I stop playing in mud puddles for fun? Would I be a new pony entirely?

For the longest time I just pretended it would never happen. I wish it could have gone on like that forever, but everypony has to grow up someday. The entire world changed for me one fateful Friday morning.

I woke up feeling a little groggy. I distinctly remember how strange I felt: my skin was too sensitive, like it gets sometimes when you have to take Foal's Tylenol. When I tossed off the covers, I saw a wet spot on my bedding. I also noticed how my penis had slipped out of its sheath and the tip was a little sticky to the touch. For a moment I thought I'd peed the bed, but then I remembered my studies. The shock of realizing what I was seeing is why they go over it in class a dozen times.

I was finally an adult.

There was a knock on my door, and I immediately panicked. I threw the covers back over me, wincing at the icky wetness now resting against my belly.

"Featherweight, it's time to get up," my mother called through the door.

My mind raced to find a solution. I wasn't ready for this! Always tell your parents, that was the rule. Don't hesitate. Tell them right away. I'd answered it on tests, but now I knew I hadn't meant it. If I told Mom, I'd be out of school for the day and headed right to the doctor to get fixed. But if I didn't tell her, she'd find the mess anyways. I already had my cutie mark, so she undoubtedly checked my sheets every day just to be on the safe side.

I cursed myself for feeling so unprepared. I always knew this would happen one day, and I just kept pretending it never would. Maybe I could get fixed tomorrow instead, or maybe next week, but I couldn't face it today. It had all happened too suddenly. I'd only woken up moments ago, and the thought of being at the doctor and having that part of my anatomy removed forever was too much. I simply wasn't ready to grow up. So, I improvised.

"I'm sick," I said, then coughed a few times.

Mom opened the door. "I'll get the thermometer," she said, and I bit down on my tongue, cursing myself again. I'd played this game too many times over the past year, and this time my balls were literally on the line.

She hoofed me the thermometer, which I had no choice but to put in my mouth. But then she turned to look out of the window for a moment, and I quickly removed it with one hoof and rubbed it vigorously in the cleft of my frog. Just as she turned back around, I pretended to pull it out of my mouth.

"Hmm. 102 is only a little elevated for a young pony..." she said. I pouted and sniffled, and her face softened. Fortunately, I was old enough to look after myself. "Alright then. I need to be at work soon. Stay in the house, okay?"

"Sure thing Mom," I said, smiling a little (but not too much!) and faking another cough. She narrowed her eyes and left my room, shutting the door behind her.

I breathed a deep sigh of relief, but my heart was pounding like a cloudhammer. I was going to lose my gonads, that much was certain. It was only a matter of time. I needed to make peace with that unalterable fact, but I was still in shock. I didn't move a muscle from where I lay until Mom finally left the house. The entire time I rested there I could feel that shameful wetness pressing on my flank, the foul sensation accusing me of being a perverted stallion just like my father.

Uncertain of what else to do, I decided to buy myself more time. I got out of bed and pulled out the vile sheets. I'd have to scrub the evidence away and hang the linens to dry before she returned, so there was no time to waste. I set to work, like so many nervous colts before me who'd tried in vain to hide this from their parents.

There wasn't much of a mess, but I despised cleaning it. The sticky fluid had come out of my traitorous body without so much as a polite request. The worst part was cleaning the residue from my penis, even though it only took a few seconds. I felt revulsion toward the organ, almost as though I blamed my penis more than I blamed my balls. I knew geldings still used their penises for pleasure, to a lesser extent than stallions of course, but I found myself thinking the doctors might as well take that from me too. Masturbating was even more gross than being gelded.

I had a lot of time to think that day. As I cleaned up after myself, I kept ruminating on what my life would be like once I'd been fixed. Celestia, what would Rumble think of me? Would he still want to be my friend? He'd have to, I supposed—he still idolized his brother, and Thunderlane was a gelding just like every other law-abiding adult male in Equestria (well, male equines, at least).

While the sheets were hanging, I decided to do something that felt foalish at the time. I wanted to get to know my balls while they were still a part of my body. So I played around with them. Not for pleasure, of course—I was filled with too much shame for that. I just wanted to examine them: to know how they felt, and how they looked, and what they could do. I rolled them around and squeezed them and pushed them up into my body. I tried to memorize every little feature. There was something beautiful about how they looked, round and full and hanging there between my hind legs, even though they were much smaller than they'd be on a grown stallion—an impossible future. This was something I might never get to see again, and I wanted to remember everything about them.

Fortunately I saw Mom through the window, walking toward the house. She'd come back home early for lunch! I rushed to take the sheets down and galloped into my room with them, shutting the door behind me. I barely had time to messily make my bed. I jumped under the covers just as she knocked on my door.

"Are you okay, sweetie?" she called, then opened the door.

"Yeah, I'm feeling a little bit better," I said, which wasn't entirely true. Now that the reality had time to sink in, I was more nervous than ever. I realized if only I'd had the guts to tell her this morning, I'd have been fixed by now and all this could have been behind me. Now it was just a matter of how long I could hide it.

Mom lifted the covers and her pastern brushed against the wet spot I'd washed clean, which hadn't completely dried.

"Oh, I spilled some soup," I said, and faked a cough. "I washed it out though."

The sad look in her eyes told me everything: she knew. I had only one gambit remaining, and it was a direct, all-out lie.

"I can tell what you're thinking, Mom, but I didn't just... grow up," I said. "I'd tell you, I promise. If you don't believe me we can just go to the doctor and do it now, though."

Mom exhaled slowly. "No, we shouldn't go before you're ready," she said. "Don't worry, Featherweight. It'll happen soon enough. I came home to eat with you but I guess you've already eaten, so I'll just make myself a sandwich."

"Yeah, I'm full. Thanks," I said, and mock-sniffled.

I spent the rest of the day in bed, hungry and horrified.

That evening I joined Mom for dinner and feigned feeling a little better. It wasn't hard to pretend to be ill anymore—I legitimately felt that way inside. All I could think about was the impending loss of my balls and how powerless I was to prevent it from happening. I knew from school that I'd probably have another wet dream tonight, and Mom would be home over the weekend. I'd never lied like this to Mom before, and it was all for naught. It had bought me a day's reprieve, and what did that extra day even matter? It wasn't a fun day. Today had been the worst day of my life.

As I lay in bed that evening, my mind buzzed. There had to be a way to fight my biology without sacrificing that same biology, but how? In desperation, I formulated a plan.

First, I plucked a primary feather. If you're not a pegasus pony or a griffin or hippogriff, you might not grasp the full weight of that statement. Primary feathers don't fall out often, and pulling one that isn't loose hurts like Tartarus. It was all I could do to keep from crying out when I finally managed to yank it free.

I slipped the feather into my sheath, up under the base of my penis, and taped it to my belly. It was really uncomfortable. The idea was that my penis would need to swell up in order to have an emission, and this would cause the quill to poke it and wake me up.

The plan worked, but it wasn't much better than staying awake all night. It took me an hour to fall asleep, and I woke up in pain at least five times.

The weekend passed slowly for me. I stayed inside Saturday on the pretext of being ill, and I played with my balls again that day. I thought maybe Saturday night would be less awful, but it was even worse and I hardly got any sleep. On Sunday I continued to play sick, but not because I had to convince Mom—I was just too depressed to face the world. I didn't even want to look at my balls that day. I was surprised Rumble didn't stop by to say 'hi' over the weekend, but it was just as well. I wasn't in the mood to socialize, not even with my best friend.

Sunday night wasn't as painful. I only woke up twice, according to my notes. It took longer to get to sleep, though. I couldn't imagine doing this for the rest of my youth, and I could never run away from home like my father did. Even if I wanted to run away, I'd never be able to get away with it. Ponyville's small, but it isn't a backwater like the swamps. Besides, I wasn't at all like my father, that much I knew. I'd have to give in eventually. I'd let them geld me before the diseased organs could poison my brain. But that would probably take months, I figured.

I just needed a few more days to come to terms with things, I told myself. That's all.